


On the Rocks

by fitz_y



Category: Inception
Genre: Bondage, Consensual, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Male Slash, Sensory Deprivation, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert is lounging, sipping his vodka, and admiring his handiwork on Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square “temperature play”. Also, this fills an Eames/Robert prompt over at [](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[**inception_kink**](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/). The only problem is I didn’t save it and now delicious is borked so I can’t find it. It was something along the lines of the summary, Eames is tied up and blindfolded, Robert is watching him as he sips vodka. When I do find it, I’ll link. [ETA. FINALLY CAME BACK TO THIS. It only took one year. Sheesh. [Here's the original prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17044.html?view=51192468#t51192468). Thank you, nonny!] And thanks to my fellow Porn Frenziers over at [](http://pornspiration.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://pornspiration.livejournal.com/)**pornspiration** for frenzying with me.

Eames could hear Robert watching him—his breath’s soft in and out, steady, unaffected—and the tumble of ice melting into vodka. All other sounds—the rumble of cars on the street far below, the low hum of the central air—muted into a whirring backdrop, nothing but shading to the subtle rhythm of air moving through Robert’s lungs to the tone of ice melting. Fabric rustled—Robert lifting his arm—and the ice slid, liquid edging between Robert’s lips, the smooth sound of a swallow. Only his sixth sip of the evening. His lips would be cold and wet now, the inside of his mouth moist coolness. How long would he make Eames wait?

He thought of Robert’s chilled blue eyes on him, analyzing his careful work, the tight line of rope biting into Eames’ ankles, circling up his calves and shins, pressing them to the chair legs, ducking behind his back to bind his wrists, crisscrossing his chest in precise, neat Xs, looping around his neck in a snug, knotted noose. Robert liked to take time to appreciate his artwork, to stare at the tan rope mapping Eames’ muscle. Robert always made Eames wait, maybe it was an exertion of power, maybe it was the game itself that aroused him, drawing it out just to make Eames’ breaking point that much sweeter.

But Eames liked the feel of his scrutiny, even though he couldn’t see him through the utter blackness covering his eyes; he liked the heavy, hot certainty that pulsed in his veins with the knowledge that Robert was staring at his body, unable to tear his eyes away from Eames’s skin, the ink of his tattoos, the twist of rope, the stretch of his lips; he liked not shrugging into another body, just letting his skin be his own for once, he liked the question that dangled like a wrecking ball in the back of his mind, the question of when or if Robert would remember, if Robert would ever recognize the curl of Eames’s lips behind the ball gag, or the shape of the wrists that he had so painstakingly tied.

Some nights they were together, Eames burned with how much he wanted Robert to remember. He’d never interacted with a mark after a completed job before, generally people in his line of work didn’t, for obvious reasons. But those things in life that other people avoided always ended up being the things that called to him. So when Robert had ground up against Eames’ ass one night in a swank gay club in Sydney where the smoky blue lighting and the easily accessible drugs made everyone look like a wet dream, Eames’ curiosity had won out. Fucking a former mark seemed a like a hell of a lot more interesting evening than picking up some blonde surfer who didn’t know what to do with his own muscles.

And when Robert had not shown a single sign of recognition, Eames had let himself stare in fascination at who Robert Fischer had become: the confident set of his shoulders, the slick assurance under the grasp of Robert’s fingers, the terse orders he’d given Eames—to undress, to sit in the chair, to wait for him—so certain that they’d be followed.

Something truly had changed about him, and Eames liked it. He liked the clarity behind his eyes, the swiftness of his hands, his silent self-confidence that had replace the outer pompousness he used to wear like a badge of honor. The cloudy questioning behind his eyes had evaporated. Which is why Eames kept coming back, drawn to this wiry strong man.

Once again he was here.

Left with nothing but the subtle sounds of Robert in front of him, the impenetrable night behind his eyes, the coil of rope into his muscles, the strain of his cock, vulnerable and already hard, for Robert to gaze at.

“You seem distracted tonight.” Robert spoke softly, yet each word rang out distinctly, chosen with care.

An answer wasn’t what Robert was expecting from Eames. No, he was just letting him know that he’d observed the twitch of his toes, the clenching of his fingers, perhaps, the tremor of his stomach, letting him know he was watching, that he knew how to read the sinew and skin of Eames’ body. Eames clenched his jaw, willing his distraction to melt away like the ice sweating in the glass Robert gripped, willing himself to tumble into the silence, waiting to stop counting Robert’s sips of Armadale on the rocks, waiting to move deeper into this game of cloak and dagger he played with his past, wanting the soundless backdrop to swallow him up until all he could hear was blood and adrenaline coursing through him.

A new sound, emphatic and sudden, startled him. The click of Robert’s footfalls over the hardwood floor. Fucking finally. Eames exhaled a gusting breath and anticipation scurried up his spine. Another sound scraped into his awareness, a metallic clang of something heavy being set on the floor.

Robert’s fingertips, cool and moist from his glass pressed under Eames’ jaw, crept around to his jugular, dug in there as his thumb splayed over the skin of Eames’ throat. This he always did—started slow and light, a press beyond a casual touch, as if he could take Eames or leave him, as if examining a statue at an art gallery.

When his other hand, warm and dry, traced a light arc over Eames’ ribs without warning, Eames shivered involuntarily. Robert clucked his tongue. “That won’t do, will it? Moving already?

“So distracted,” he murmured, continuing to speak in a low, even voice as his other hand swept up to map Eames’ face, over the edge of the blindfold, fiddling in the spit on his chin leaked from the ball gag. “I’ve done all the work here, haven’t I? I’ve done everything I can to keep you and your restless fingers still, to keep you from your endless fidgeting, your gnawing at toothpicks, your playing with pens. Yet you’ve failed. You’ve got to concentrate here.”

Robert fell silent then, his hand dropped from Eames’ body. Eames swallowed against the cottony dryness spreading in the back of his throat and tasted anticipation thick on his tongue. Now it would start. Mentally he ordered himself not to squirm despite the excitement prickling alive across his skin. If he fidgeted, that would only send Robert away from Eames, back to the chair, back to waitng.

He wondered what _it_ would be tonight. Hot wax, sparks of electricity, the thin edge of a cold knife?

He couldn’t know, he’d have to wait for his senses to puzzle it out.

First, nothing. The near-quiet of their inhales and exhales, Eames’ already irregular, Robert’s steady and even like the ticking of a clock. Then, the swirling of ice in Robert’s glass, the soft menacing tone of his voice.

“Now if you’re good, if you can focus enough to stay still, you’ll get a reward. And if you can’t there will be a price to pay.”

Eames took a shuddering inhale, felt his breath working through his body. He could do this. He waited, skin stretched too tight over the humming throbbing needing inside him that would soon build up to a fever pitch. He shoved it down, listening instead in the darkness for Robert.

It began at the back of his neck: the pressure of Robert’s fingers, Robert’s fingers and something else, something slippery trapped between his palm’s and Eames’ skin. Slick and wet, it rubbed against the top knob of his spine. A spear of cold rushed his senses. A clump of ice, coated in expensive vodka.

Silently, Robert increased the pressure on his hand; he was going to be unrelenting tonight. Eames resolved to fight the biting impulse to squirm against the rope, against the ice, against Robert’s gaze. For this game with Robert he would remain absolutely motionless. The ice cluster became a pinpoint, a tingling chill numbing that one round of skin, flat and dull like a blunt edge branding him.

Eames controlled his inhales, listening to the in and out of breath.

Surely Robert would lift the ice away now. Had several minutes not already passed?

A drip escaped the clamp of Robert’s hand, slithered over a centimetre of skin before soaking into the thick hemp roped around his neck. Eames tensed his neck, shoulders, screwing those muscles tight so he didn’t flinch.

Robert lifted his hand away, but before Eames could slump into his bonds in relief, another block of ice, wider than the one before—too large to fit into Robert’s rocks glass, a bucket then, perhaps—was shoved against his neck, held in place.

Minutes passed.

The wet cold grew teeth. Biting into his skin, it morphed into a tingling burning shriek, snaked into his blood, tugged at the screams lodged in Eames’ lungs. It was burning a round hole in his skin like a cigar butt burning through gossamer. He groaned from the back of his throat, low and needy, he couldn’t help it.

“Well that wasn’t very good, was it now?” Robert asked steadily. “You managed all of fifteen minutes and two chunks of ice. I’m disappointed in you.” And he slapped him hard, leaving a wet stinging imprint on his cheek that faintly echoed the burning cold at the back of his neck. “That was the first warning. Let’s try this again.”

Eames waited. He knew what Robert was up to, stealing the ice away right before the numbness settled in. He would show him how much better he could do, he wouldn’t give him that opportunity again. His skin was pulling tighter around the rapid flow of energy in him awakening to careen through his lungs, fizz in his blood, twist tight in his cock. Wary, hungry, his want, a thick sturdy pole, anchored him to the chair, held the pieces of himself together underneath the rope.

He heard the slick clatter of ice against metal. Robert’s long fingers running through water and ice. He steeled himself.

An agonizingly slow wet path trailed over his right hipbone, dripped and slicked into the rope on his thigh. Robert was tracing the words of his tattoo, running an ice chunk over them now, offering but a nanosecond of relief as the ice paced back and forth over his skin. Eames inhaled, screwed his eyes tight under the blindfold, at least Robert couldn’t see him doing that. A trapped animal pacing the length of its cage, his restlessness lanced through his muscles and hollered at him to move, to fight the rope, the gag, to squirm away from the chill.

Robert was having one of his silent moods, when a quiet focus settled into his shoulders and around the edges of his mouth, and he had no words for Eames, just sensations, just bonds.

A second chunk of ice pressed against his sternum. With one hand Robert was continuing to trace the path frozen into his right hip, and with his other, he drew sweeping, sloppy wet patterns on Eames’s chest, his pecs, chest hair, belly button, stomach, skimming along the lines of his ribs, against the border of rope, leaving him desperate to shiver with the moisture on his skin. The sparking bite ripped into him, leaving him too far away from that edge of numbness; a ripple of too much sensation slid over the whole of his skin.

And without any further warning, the ice plowed into Eames’s nipple urging it to dull hardness. His chest tightened; he could feel this one everywhere, a line of energy shot straight down his torso to his groin, tightening his erection, pulling it up higher. He he wanted to squirm, he wanted to shout hoarsely, use up whatever he was left of his voice to get the hell out of here. It was too much. Too much, he had to stop it, but the cube just rubbed over his nipple in tantizling circles, forcing Eames’s attention way from everything else but the dull, cold, wet feeling at his nipple.

If he could just be good, if he could just hold it together for Robert, just this little bit longer, then he would get what he wanted. He knew the games that Robert played, he knew that Robert liked to push, liked to push a lot in fact, but that there were things that Robert liked too much to deny himself. Like Eames’s cock. So if he could just hold out just hold out a little longer then it would all be okay, then he would get what he wanted.

Yet, despite the tension in his muscles, in his mind, in the curls of rope, despite everything in and around him holding him in place, he broke. Eames shuddered, a wave running from his hard cock through his belly up his chest, tipping his head back.

“There now,” the ice lifted but the sting remained, “give me a number back there.” Eames considered; pointing out one finger from the knot of his fingers behind his back would make the biting pain stop, would cut everything short, but it would leave the energy beating under his skin trapped there. Two would slow it, three would speed it up.

“Thomas,” Robert drew out the syllables of Eames’ second-oldest alias, “give me a number.” Eames unclenched two fingers.

“Okay, okay,” he said matter-of-factly, “It’s time for something else. Go ahead and move while I take a drink.” Footfalls circling behind him, the clink of ice.

At his words, Eames slumped down into the bindings holding him in place, letting the thrumming tension move into his muscles, inhaling jerkily, clenching and unclenching his fingers, his toes, his arsehole.

Robert’s steps drew closer. “You’ve been good, really good, Thomas.” And Eames knew it was true. “It’s been almost an hour. That’s good. We’re almost at the reward. Almost there. But stay still for me, okay?” A heavy weight settled over him, straddled his thighs. The fine fabric of Robert’s suit brushed against Eames’ naked legs, crowded against his sensitive cock, reminding him of how achingly hard he was, pressed into his chest, against the skin and the soaked rope criss-crosses. Eames thought about what Robert must look like, moulding himself over Eames, mussing his expensive suit with the dribbles left from ice and vodka. On the force of will alone, Eames stilled, reined in the twisting fidgety energy, made himself a statue for Robert.

“Yeah,” Robert said. “Like that. Don’t move.” And then his tongue was licking over Eames’ collarbone, up his throat, into his ear, sending tremors lancing through him, tremors that Eames easily swallowed down, not letting them surface. His tongue was cold from the vodka, but it wasn’t near the numbing coldness of the ice. With sweeping licks, Robert brought all the trembling energy in Eames to the surface of his skin, running through him like rivulets of rainwater hurrying downhill.

Robert shifted off him, stood between his legs, braced a hand on either thigh, leaning in close to lick and bite at the flesh between the ropes, his mouth was heated now, a warm wet force taking Eames apart, tantalizing him with the promise of release.

Eames exhaled, grimaced with the effort of holding himself motionless under his rope. He no longer wanted to squirm, he wanted his damn hands untied so he could run his thumbs over Robert’s cheekbones, grip his hair, so he could rip off his blindfold at stare at the sight of Robert’s lips on his skin.

But if he begged for it now, Robert would never let him have it. So he controlled himself.

And then Robert’s chest was sliding down against his own, the fabric soft on his skin that still tingled from the ice. He paused, and Eames registered the sound of ice swirling in a glass. Was he finishing his drink?

He waited, no longer able to think beyond the stiff ache in his cock, the tingle of his skin, the imprint of Robert’s mouth.

He couldn’t help it, he startled, would have jumped were it not for the rope, when Robert’s mouth, icy wet, closed over the head of his cock. Robert pulled off right away. “Stay still, this is your last warning,” he growled before sucking Eames down aggressively, swirling his warm tongue over the vein that throbbed low in his cock, drawing Eames into the chilled back of his throat. As the warm and cool temperatures played over, around his cock, Eames fought down the urge to buck, to shudder. He needed to push farther in, he ached to get away from the tantalizing cold.

He tipped his head back, though, hoping Robert wouldn’t look up, unable to hold it up anymore, as all the restlessness under his skin flooded through him, shot straight into his cock. The slurping sounds of Robert’s eager, sloppy blow job, so opposite to his precise application of ice, to his attentive, removed observation of Eames’s muscles and skin, to his carefully exact knowledge of rope and knots, those sounds made Eames’s desire clench even tighter. Robert wanted this so much. It had been just as much torture for him to wait. And with that thought, Eames bucked his hips uselessly against the restraints, came with a raw groan, poured all that burning energy down Robert’s throat, and slumped bonelessly against into his rope, glad for something holding him in place.

“Well.” He could practically hear the smirk in Robert’s voice, waited for the crack about his inability to last. But it didn’t come. It would have been untrue anyway. They both knew that, where it counted, Eames had lasted.

Minutes later, Robert was removing the gag, the blindfold. Eames blinked in the dim light, shook his head, and closed his eyes, for just a little longer, letting Robert’s nimble fingers work over the ties, loosening them quickly, rubbing Eames’ muscles briskly, bringing attention to his calves, thighs, knees, parts of himself that it seemed Eames had long forgotten.

“Well that was a lovely end to our evening. C’mon, let’s move you to the couch, yeah?”

Eames nodded and squinted open his eyes, Robert’s icy blue eyes, his high cheekbones coming into focus. “It’s you,” Eames said stupidly, smiling.

Robert nodded, quirking him a smile. “It’s me.”

He helped Eames stumble to the couch, kissed him on the forehead, and nipped into the bathroom. When he returned, he rubbed his stomach, his cock, the lines on his skin where the rope had been with a wet cloth. Eames closed his eyes, again, enjoying the damp warmth after all the ice.

“Sit up then,” he chided after a moment. “You can’t fall asleep just yet.” He passed him a blanket, wrapped it over his shoulders, tucked it in around Eames’ waist. “I’ll go make us some tea and then we can go to bed, okay?”

Eames nodded, wondering when it had become part of the routine that he stayed over. A few months back, maybe? The blanket felt soft against his skin that was still tingling tiredly; he could feel his blood pulsing slowly through his veins, and his mind was deliciously blank. Except for one thought. If he really was curious how Fischer would react to knowing that Eames had gone adventuring in three layers of his mind, he should just tell him.  



End file.
